


Sight

by queenmcgonagall



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-16
Updated: 2013-02-16
Packaged: 2017-11-29 12:50:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/687149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenmcgonagall/pseuds/queenmcgonagall
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Louis through Harry's eyes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sight

Louis is talking but Harry doesn’t hear it, although the sound of Louis’s voice usually curls itself around Harry’s heart, reaches out long fingers and whispers against his ears. But right now, all he sees is Louis’s mouth opening and closing, the tiny cracks at the corner of his mouth stretching and pulling, forming words. Louis’s tongue flicks out to wet his lips, shiny, pink and a spark jolts through Harry and he has to look away so that he doesn’t climb on top of Louis and catch that tongue between his teeth, before it can dip back into Louis’s mouth.

Louis always manages to do this to him and Harry always reacts the same way, breathless and flustered, wanting more but settling for his gaze locking on Louis during interviews. He resents the way Louis has such a hold on him, but he loves it because it reminds him of what they have.

The rough fabric of the couch rubs uncomfortably against the skin on Harry’s elbow as Louis settles in, gesturing wildly with his hands. Harry leans back and into the warmth of Louis’s side, relishing the soft pull of Louis’s t-shirt against his own and the way it clings to Louis’s side, accentuating the tight stretch of the muscles there.

Harry’s always been fascinated by Louis’s face, his body. The micro-expressions that flit across his features are as enigmatic to an interviewer as they are clear to Harry. His eyebrows twitch. He’s lying. The golden skin of his forehead furrows for less than a second. He’s upset. That goofy mask that usually hold’s Louis’s face in construct is just that: a mask. Harry knows the real him, the Louis that writhes under him late at night, the one that tries to make him a cheese on toast, but fails horribly. Harry knows the real Louis, the one that looks at him with both love and lust in his eyes, blue darkened into navy. The mask is there to challenge others, to dare them to look past it. Louis puts up walls to dare people to take them down. Harry had them down within minutes of that first meeting in the toilets.

Harry’s eyes rove over Louis, greedily soaking up all the details of that face he’s memorized in those quiet moments in bed before they both fall asleep.

Harry notices the slightly bruised-looking skin in the soft hollow between Louis’s eye and nose. The purple skin is a map of veins, waiting to be brushed by Harry’s lips, fingers, anything. Harry wants to draw his tongue over that tired-looking skin, soothing, until the pinched expression fades and all that’s left is the bright Louis he knows.

From Louis’s nose, Harry’s eyes travel to the soft hairs at Louis’s hairline, the ones that lie flat against his forehead, even when Harry cards his fingers through Louis’s feathered hair. Harry knows from experience just how soft those hairs are. He can see them fluff up slightly, from the breeze generated by the fan in the corner of the room. Harry watches as goose bumps rise on Louis’s skin and his fingers move imperceptibly, wanting to splay his hands across Louis’s arms and rub the warmth back into him. Last night, they purposely left the window open in their hotel room, letting in the cold air. They swaddled themselves up in blankets, and lay underneath the window, tracing each other’s features with shivering fingers, soaking up each other’s warmth and sharing it through soft kisses.

Thinking of last night makes Harry’s spine tingle. Something inside his chest swells. His heart, maybe. He remembers how when they’d curled up, exhausted, he’d placed his lips at the back of Louis’s neck, under his hair and possessively kissed a small bruise there. When Louis adjusts his shirt, the back of his hair moves and Harry can see the edges of the mark. Pride wells up and it’s all Harry can do not to grin wildly.

Now Liam is talking. Harry watches as Louis relaxes, not the center of attention anymore. His slim fingers reach up and fix his fringe. The same slim fingers that stroked the hollows of Harry’s hips last night, the same fringe that tickled Harry’s chest as Louis lovingly pressed kisses down his torso.

Louis moves his head minutely, glancing at Harry out of the corner of his eye. All Harry catches is a glimmer of blue before it’s gone again, as Louis faces forward. Harry can see the corners of Louis’s mouth tugging into a small smile, as he realizes Harry’s been staring at him this whole time. When he finally looks around again, he holds Harry’s eyes and a flood of butterflies consume Harry’s stomach. A full year they’ve been together and Louis’s eyes focused on him, crinkling slightly at the corners, can still make him feel like a 12 year old girl in love.

Someone coughs and he feels an elbow push into his ribs. Harry doesn’t know who it was, Liam probably, but he gets the message. Turn around. Stop staring at Louis. He can’t.

He sees Louis look at him out of the corner of his eye again. He should be getting the elbow in the ribs, he was being more obvious. Harry relishes the way Louis’s eyelashes brush the flushed skin of his cheekbones as he smirks slightly, trying to hold in his blush at the way Harry’s eyes are trained on him. Harry knows to ignore that smirk and instead his eyes travel to the tips of Louis’s ear, stained red with awareness. Harry turns away and smiles to himself.

If they were lying in their bed at home, they would be pressed together as the sun filters through the curtains, throwing beams across the bedspread. He wishes he was mapping Louis’s face with his lips instead of his eyes. But they’re not at home. They’re sitting in this small room, sweating bottles of water sitting in front of them, a mindless interviewer stuffing a microphone in each of their faces, asking them mindless questions, and listening to their mindless answers. It’s moments like these that drive Harry to stare at Louis until his eyes glaze over from not blinking.

Finally, it seems the interviewer is wrapping up. She shakes each of the boys’ hands and thankfully doesn’t comment on his quietness during the interview. She must think it’s nerves. He knows it’s for Louis. It’s always for Louis.

In a matter of minutes, they’ll be home in their own apartment. Louis will toe off his shoes, throw his jacket on the floor. Harry will pick up Louis’s jacket and hang it on the hook, like he does every night. They might make omelets. Maybe they’ll watch a movie. If Harry’s lucky, Louis might fill up the bath with hot water and wash Harry’s hair for him, soaping up the curly strands, cleansing the stress from Harry’s scalp and massaging his love and adoration into him. Maybe Louis will lean Harry on the kitchen table and kiss him until Harry can’t even remember his own name.

The night will end the same way though. They start on the couch, tangled in each other, watching whatever late-night show is on. Louis will trace shapes into Harry’s collarbone until he’s so sleepy he can’t keep his eyes open. Louis will gather him up and guide him to the bedroom the way he knows Harry likes, because he likes feeling that comfortable sense of safety when Louis takes care of him. Harry will crawl into the bed, his head finding its familiar indent on the pillow. Louis will tug off Harry’s trousers, unbutton his shirt, dropping them on the floor next to the bed, waiting innocently for Harry to trip over on his way to the bathroom in the morning. Harry will blindly turn his face for a kiss and Louis acquiesces, catching Harry’s lips between his in a gesture so sweet it makes Harry’s toes curl against the sheets. Louis crawls into bed next to him, pulls Harry in, until every inch of their bodies is lined up together. He breathes softly into Harry’s curls, softly pulling at them with nimble fingers, lulling Harry into the deepest relaxation. Harry presses tired kisses into the column of Louis’s throat, listens to the way Louis’s breath hitches at his touch. Harry’s hand finds its way to Louis’s hip and Louis presses his lips to Harry’s cheek one more time. They whisper softly, ‘I love you, I love you, I love you’ into the darkness.


End file.
